


Worth It

by MayaTL



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-06-26 12:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15663363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayaTL/pseuds/MayaTL
Summary: Not all Slytherins are evil.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this down in a very rough draft one late evening during a thunderstorm, blasting Everything Is Not What It Seems by Selena Gomez through my headphones on repeat. 
> 
> That should explain most of it.
> 
> Original credits go to J.K. Rowling and Thomas Sanders respectively, though this takes place in an alternate universe created by myself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he wasn't a Hufflepuff. He wasn't supposed to be known for his loyalty... nor for his wisdom for that matter. No, he wasn't a Ravenclaw either, he thought bitterly, a mirthless tug pulling at his lips despite it all.
> 
> He was a Slytherin.

He was shocked out of his sleep so suddenly that at first he wasn't altogether so sure where he was, and he woke with a start and gasp, breathing sharply as if he'd been running from danger.

For the brief moment he spent rearranging his thoughts back together he wondered how any creature could have gotten past the enchantment—perhaps by diving into the lake, though he doubted the mermaids would have been too thrilled with someone violating their territory and threatening their human friends—or found its way through the labyrinth that led to the dormitory of his house otherwise.

The blow had felt awfully physical, but when he swirled around to see what had burst through the matress of his bed he saw nothing, only the disturbance in the sheets he himself had caused by jolting awake so messily and unlike himself.

He dared a glance at the rest of the room and found it empty as usual, his fellow house members either upstairs or wandering the school grounds, doing away with their free time as they pleased. The crystals within the silver lamps by the farthest wall had already begun glowing upon sensing he had awoken, bathing the rest of the room in a familiar greenish light and shining upon the empty beds and the insignia to his house, carved smoothly into the stone floor.

The snake twisted and snared, still as though it appeared, and despite the illogicality of the thought a feeling of dread plummeted into his stomach and settled there, cold and heavy and ever knowing.

He thought, for just a moment, that it's eyes had shifted to look right at him, staring through to his very soul in a way that could have only been described as unnervingly desperate; like there was something just out of his reach and he needed just a little push to touch it.

Then the moment was gone and he knew what he'd seen and where to go, and he both blessed and cursed his professor for engaging him so thoroughly in those Divination lessons.

That hadn't been a dream. It had been a vision.

He snatched his wand from the nightstand and bolted up the stairs in growing panic, intent on ripping his broom from the very wall on the way out if he had to. A thought surfaced for a split second, of the consequences that would follow what he was about to do, but for once in his life he didn't care for the rules.

He didn't care for the fact that he was still in his night robes, or how everyone in the common room startled and quickly rose to their feet when he ran past them and to the door, screaming in a terrifying tone they'd never heard in his voice about Dementors.

* * *

 

"What's your patronus?"

He raised his eyes and head from the book residing obediently on his lap, losing the string of the narrative as a voice cut through the silence they had so comfortably settled into. He reached up to adjust his glasses—out of habit, not necessity—and pondered the question silently, the pages momentarily forgotten.

"Pardon?"

He had heard the question clearly enough, but out of a perfectionist need for confirmation and a devious way of earning more time to think about an acceptable answer—a trait he had long realised had probably helped his placing into the house he was now part of—the word had simply slipped out of his mouth.

He saw a smile, a shy one, and nothing but absolute trust and openness in the darkness of his eyes, shadowed further by the ever present cloak around his shoulders. Simple and monochromatic, sporting none of the colours belonging to the four houses.

"Your patronus. You talk a lot about patronuses, but you haven't shown me the spell once. I don't care much for it, really... I just wanted to know what yours is."

Well, that would be an easy enough question to answer.

He pulled a bookmark from one of his sleeves and settled the book down on the grass as he rose, taking a few steps towards another side of the clearing. He could feel curious eyes on his back, watching him as he fetched his wand from its usual place inside the same sleeve and turned, calmly and tightly, assuming the stance he had been taught and knew by heart.

He waved the wand in a familiar, smooth pattern, his right hand outstretched for balance. It was a thing that his fellow students had teased him for at first, along with the elegance so unlike their house that he performed his spells with, but they had grown to admire him for it, along with everything else.

"Expecto patronum!"

A bright display of white light burst into the clearing, swirling aimlessly like restless fireflies, before it circled up into the trees and back down again, taking the unmistakable form of a large, imposing eagle, screech and all.

He watched it glide through the air as if in water, towards the figure gaping up at it with eyes wide and full of awe. It swirled around him, long feathers tickling his face and back even through his cloak, and he was certain no laughter could ever be as warm as that one.

Like any spell with only the intention of showing off its grandeur it faded within seconds, letting out another echoing scream as it dissolved into white dust and eventually nothing again. He tucked his wand safely into his sleeve, unfazed by the display he had practiced for months and perfected for years.

He met eyes full of naked admiration and pride and a smile, so soft and so precious it could rival the greatest jewel, and he smiled in return.

Perhaps they both registered the unspoken truth, and if so he was grateful none of them gave it a voice. His house had pointed it out already, as they seemed to do with everything he did, the irony of his patronus being the mascot of the house he had been so immovably sure he would be chosen for, yet rejected so sharply from with but a single word.

"I wonder what mine would be."

Such an innocent statement, yet so many darker thoughts cowering behind it—the knowledge that he might never know, that he had no one to teach him, that he didn't belong, that he had no magic in him after all. Thoughts that he wouldn't let him entertain.

"I would think something small. A butterfly, perhaps."

There was a question in the tilt of his head, and he quickly continued before he could find a way to misinterpret his words, that were meant to cause no harm and held no malice.

"Mine is quite grand in its display because of the leadership traits I exhibit. You are more a quiet type; you keep to yourself, you take a liking to the safety of the shadows..."

His smile persisted as he spoke.

"...yet you are soft and gentle and kind in your own, introverted way. Butterflies are creatures that do not realize their beauty, yet are beloved by all who see them for it."

And there was no greater accomplishment then than seeing that genuine smile creeping back across his face, wider yet, until his cheeks pushed up towards his eyes, that shone yet with an intensity only he could manage.

They returned to their comfortable silence with silent acknowledgement of all the words between them, spoken or not, the sparks of a fresh spell seeming to linger just beyond their reach.

"Logan?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

His mouth twitched into another smile that he so rarely allowed within the walls of the castle, and on even rarer occasion in the presence of his fellow students, be they of his house or another.

"Of course, Virgil."

* * *

 

"Logan...?"

He blinked his eyes back into focus, still dizzy from the temporary blindness of his own spell and shocked by the intensity of it; he had never cast a patronus so bright and vicious. He could still feel the air around him sparking, tense with the adrenaline undoubtedly radiating off of him, and the whisps of white slowly gliding to the ground like the lightest feathers had never lasted this long.

He had never used his patronus for what it was meant to be used, because there had never been a threat mighty enough to warrant it.

He looked down at the source of the voice—that voice he knew so well, that voice he loved so much—so small and fearful, and he didn't falter. He leapt from the fallen trunk, over the figure cowering before it, and waved his hand in an unspoken command, as if he were one with his wand and it would know the spell without having to hear it.

There was another burst of light, a concentrated one this time, reverberating through the air like a shockwave and sending every creature in its path flying back.

It would delay them, but not for long. Not long enough.

He whipped around and grabbed him by the arm, praying in that moment to whatever God was listening that everything he was feeling would just transfer through that one touch, through every layer of clothing; his relief to find him alive, his panic upon waking from a vision showing everything he hadn't wanted to see, everything he wanted to say but didn't have the time to.

He hadn't even grabbed his scarf on the way out and he was still dressed in his night robes, that were thicker than those of the other three houses but still unsuitable for the cold air. The sky was full of gray clouds and something told him they would grow darker yet.

They ran as fast as their legs would carry them, his grip on the shaking arm never faltering. He had left his broom nearby, practically throwing it aside as soon as it became clear he would better navigate through the trees on foot, and it had to still be there, waiting to whisk them away from danger.

He looked behind him just in time to see him stumble—his fault, he had probably pulled him too harshly—and caught him before he hit the ground. He could hear them moving a ways away from them, the same dreadful wailings he had first heard rising back up as if from the dead, which meant the shock spell he had thrown at them was starting to wear off.

He scanned their surroundings and spotted the broom resting near a tree, hovering in anticipation almost on the very edge of the forest, and then he looked down at the treasure he held in his arms protectively, who had always been shorter than him by quite a bit. Those beautiful, alluring dark eyes that had brought him so much joy were gleaming with fear and glossed over with panic, horrible, ugly emotions that had no place anywhere near him.

He whipped his head back towards a sudden high pitched wail, into the darkness but closer than it should have been, and then in the direction where the castle lay, beyond the cover of the treetops, and he knew they wouldn't make it. Not with this many on their tail, not with the two of them weighing down a broom fitted for one.

They wouldn't make it.

Not both of them.

He grabbed him by the wrist, tightly, and yanked him the distance to the broom with only a few strides, placing his hand over his on the stick and forcing him to get a strong grip on it because he'd never flown one before.

"Listen to me: fly as fast as you can and don't look back."

He didn't have time to notice or appreciate the steel of command in his voice, how right the sorting hat had been when it had gone against his every wish and expectation with that one simple word; how much he truly sounded like a Slytherin.

"Get to the courtyard, find Roman—or Patton, they'll know what to do, and no matter what you do don't let go of this broom, do you hear me?"

He could see the panic threatening to overwhelm him and he hated it, wanted nothing more than to stomp it out and see him smile again, see him safe, but he knew he was sending him to safety he wouldn't find where they were now; all he needed to see was a nod, shaky and barely there, any sign of confirmation that he had understood, before he reached over and grabbed his face with both hands, smashing their lips together.

It was soft even when forceful, filled with every promise he could have made and couldn't keep and everything he didn't have time to say, and then he was backing off and facing away, raising his wand back into position.

He turned to him briefly, just to see his eyes one more time, before his voice was giving an order that would not be denied, with a sharpness he had never heard himself use before.

"Go! Go, now!"

He watched him flinch—at his tone or something, anything else, he didn't know—then practically throw himself on top of the broom with less grace than a first year student, letting out a yelp as it took off immediately, speeding up and away from danger like all it had been waiting for was weight to carry. He only spared himself a second to watch him go, to hope that the only likely-inanimate object he had ever managed to become fond of would bring him to safety unharmed.

He pivoted around without a second thought, slashing his wand through the air like a freshly sharpened sword, his voice booming with an echo that could only be possible with a powerful surge of magic.

"Expecto patronum!"

The second one he had cast that day, and so close to the previous too, and just like the first it blasted the foul creatures back with the mighty screech of an eagle and a searing white light.

He could tell right away that this time had left him breathing slightly more strenuously and he was aware he wouldn't be able to keep it up forever. He was well versed in the art of saving magical energy—it wasn't the first time he had used multiple spells in a day and one after the other, but never this one. He had never used this one more than twice in a row and never against so many creatures of such darkness.

From the leftover white dust still lingering in the air, vibrating with intent as if anxious to be used again, a small white butterfly of light glided to life and landed on his shoulder, flapping its delicate wings expectantly.

He turned to it. He knew it would take more magic. He didn't care.

"Will you tell him?"

It took off as soon as the words left his mouth, gently whispered and full of regret, and dashed after the trail of the broom as fast as its little wings would carry it.

Logan watched it go, then slowly, ever so slowly, turned back to the darkness.

_Patton's going to kill me for this._

* * *

 

"What do they look like?"

His unprompted question earned him a questioning glance, the notion of petting seemingly thin air coming to an abrupt halt. It was a normal reaction, considering he'd said it so casually too.

He met his eyes for a second before he saw the wave of realization washing over his face, and saw him go back to facing away from him, head hung slightly.

It wasn't rare that they stumbled upon a herd—the forest was their home after all—yet every time he would have to remind him that one of them couldn't see them.

One of them hadn't seen death.

He couldn't recall if he'd asked the question before, but it came naturally enough that he assumed he hadn't, and whereas he expected a physical description, a quite unpleasant one nonetheless, he received a headshake in its stead.

"They look... sad. Sad and... and lonely, and lost—and cold."

His brows had shot up to his hairline, because of all the answers he had anticipated that hadn't been one, but it's only a moment before he slipped into a gentler expression; of course he hadn't expected an answer like that. He would have given a very different one.

He didn't have to lean over and peak under the hood to know he would see pain reflected in his eyes, who were surely downcast. The petting motion had returned, though slower this time. More of a soothing caress than an affectionate pat.

He stepped forward and placed a firm but warm and comforting hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles through the silk of his cloak. The shoulders, having been drooping sadly before, relaxed in a different way under his touch.

"They look like they shouldn't be here, like they don't belong in this horrible place—"

He heard him pause to take a steadying breath, and waited patiently for him to continue.

"They look like they should be at peace, but they aren't... and they don't deserve it."

He inched closer and gave his shoulder a measured squeeze, and when a hand moved from the muzzle he couldn't see and reached up to grasp his own in a silent thank you, he gladly intertwined their fingers and held it tightly, securely, intent on never letting go. They stood in silence for a little while, not an entirely comfortable one but not uncomfortable either.

They had to move eventually, had to let go and stand aside. The herd he couldn't see began to leave, or rather slithered off quietly like they were walking to their doom, like empty shells of the poor souls they had once been, as he remembered Virgil vaguely describing once.

The clearing surrounding the small pond was as empty as he had thought it initially, but he stood there nonetheless because to one of them it wasn't empty yet. He stood there, again intertwining his fingers with the ones of the hand now resting limply beside his, and soon enough he felt a head tucking itself in the crook of his neck.

Logan looked at the only one he had eyes for and gave the hand held tightly in his a squeeze, and he thought then that there was nowhere else he would rather be.

* * *

 

He doesn't register anything else besides how high up in the air he is and how he's gripping the broomstick so tightly it might snap in two, until he's close enough to the castle to see people crowding up in an open space, and he thinks they may be pointing at him as he begins his shaky descent.

There seems to be chaos everywhere and he doesn't nail the landing, he tumbles forward and skids along the floor face first, the broom dropping dead near its feet as if it's out of fuel.

He looks up just enough to spot three figures rushing through the gathering of students, probably trying to infuse some type of order, and the one in the middle has gentle eyes, but there's something familiar about him that makes him look like he's in charge.

He barely remembers where he is and before he knows it he's asking for Roman, even though he doesn't know who this Roman fellow is supposed to be, and then someone literally shoves the crowd out of his way, knocking a few students down over themselves. He's a handsome one by any standards, clad in elegant robes like Logan's, but with scarlet and gold instead of green and silver.

He grabs his shoulder with too much force and his mouth is moving but he cannot hear him, and suddenly there's someone else kneeling before him, telling him to breathe, and he's got glasses just like Logan's but his robes are black and yellow. He spots another one just behind him, in the same robes, but his eyes are snake-like and glowing with the horror of realization.

When he finally manages to get up on his feet and tell them the first thing that comes out of his mouth, there's shouting and gasps and he turns around to see what it's about.

A white butterfly made of light flaps weakly towards him and he catches it before it can fall, cradling it in its palms like the most precious thing in the world. It's small and beautiful and beloved, and he remembers.

He remembers talks of butterflies and patronuses, shy smiles and clear laughter, warm hands and blue eyes and the ghost of a chaste kiss on his lips, and suddenly he doesn't feel anything anymore.

A blinding white light erupts from somewhere in the distance and everyone raises their arms to shield themselves, but Virgil doesn't. Even though his eyes are soon watering badly, he doesn't, because as soon as the light fades so does the butterfly in his hands.

It slips through his fingers and it's gone, like the sand in an hourglass that's run out of time. It doesn't even linger like it used to.

He doesn't feel his knees hit the pavement.

There's someone by his side, they're pulling him close, and he doesn't realize he's screaming Logan's name until he's sobbing into the person's shirt. His eyes are filled with too many tears to see and his body shaking too badly to support him and his throat is too dry for his voice to come out anymore.

There are students and teachers all around him and maybe now, he thinks, they'll all be able to see them. Maybe now he won't be the only one.

He tries for a laugh, even an empty one, but it comes out as a sob.

He's glad that Logan never got to see them.

* * *

 

He thought of his Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, one of his favourites, as he ran deeper into those confounded woods, breaths even but heavy, magic he had never dared to think of summoning burning at his fingertips.

 _This lesson is one of the few that you are not allowed to forget, no matter how difficult you may find it and in spite of any other lessons you may have on your mind_.

He muttered forbidden words under his breath, his wand suddenly light in his hand, words that he had read once and that had thoroughly appalled him, words that he had sworn with one hand raised never to summon, his voice one with the rest of his class as they all stood before their desks. An oath he was deliberately breaking right now.

He would have laughed had he not been so focused, had the true urgency of the situation not been weighing down on him so heavily. Here he was, stepping all over one of the most important promises he could remember making, he who had always been so proud of his sense of loyalty.

 _A curse is the most vile form of Dark Magic, something that should never be tampered with, nor something to be taken lightly... especially those that require an incantation. Those are the most powerful of them all_.

But he wasn't a Hufflepuff. He wasn't supposed to be known for his loyalty... nor for his wisdom for that matter. No, he wasn't a Ravenclaw either, he thought bitterly, a mirthless tug pulling at his lips despite it all.

He was a Slytherin.

He felt his voice crack and his breathing going off rhythm, as if the words were poison on his tongue, spreading through his body, making him stumble, his limbs aching and his eyes watering.

He could hear them all around him, wailing and whispering, feeling the dark energy taking over his body. He could feel it crawling under his skin, just below the surface, and the copper taste staining his mouth meant he had bitten his tongue trying to get the words right; he could feel the shielding spell he had cast to manoeuvre past them coroding and fading as all his strength went into the string of foreign noises leaving another tase on his palette beside that of blood.

 _Never read these runes out loud, never summon the power of this spell, for it is not a spell; it is a curse. A curse that if cast, will be your undoing_.

He knew which curse he had just cast upon himself—he wasn't that foolish—and he could feel it beginning as soon as he had decided upon it; or rather he had felt it.

He couldn't feel anything now.

Time seemed slow and sluggish when he finally stopped and finally, finally dropped the crumbling remnants of a magic shield, finding himself surrounded. He knew they would sense him, even those furthest away, and they would stray from their path to get to him.

He couldn't hear anything anymore but he could see, and saw himself slowly raising his left arm high above his head, as high as he could reach, and he had a thought he wouldn't have been able to feel his wand either way.

He registered his lips moving and was slightly surprised his tongue still worked as he screamed out a more familiar spell at the top of his lungs. There was a blinding light like never before and the majestic screech of an eagle he couldn't hear nor see.

_It will consume you, corrupt you before you get the chance to use its power to enhance another spell, no matter how fierce the temptation. Nothing is worth it, for it will cost you your life._

He felt himself smile, a small, wistful and sad smile, as his eyes slid closed. The last face he saw was smiling back, shy and soft as it had ever been, with dark and beautiful eyes, before he let the light engulf them both.

He would have heeded those words in another time, and his past self would have been horrified to find him so deliberately going against them now, but somewhere along the way he had found something ingrained deep within himself:

He never could have helped but have a certain disregard for the rules.

He was a Slytherin, after all.

**_Forgive me, professor..._ **

**_...but he was worth it._ **


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I miss him."
> 
> He doesn't know it's his voice that said it, because it's so empty and terribly hoarse from lack of use, until the fingers around his shoulder noticeably tighten.

He haunts the halls like a ghost in a body it no longer desires, never resting, never stopping, never seeing, not even as the students move out of his path with painful recognition and pity in their eyes, nor as most of the teachers he brushes by instinctively reach out to comfort him before pulling back, because they know as well as he does—as anyone does—that it would be in vain. Any touch he would not feel and any words would not reach his ears.

There was always only one who could bring him healing and now he is no more, and none will ever be whom he longs for.

There is no comfort for him.

He heads down a corridor gone silent, with students shut behind thick and heavy doors, engaged in lectures they stubbornly choose to take with heavy hearts and red rimmed eyes, and lets his feet guide him to a place he has memorized inch by inch and could find his way to in the dark.

The quiet would have been a blessing in a time past, but now it does not register. It does not reach him. Nothing ever will.

More often than not his mind is desolate and empty, but for once he lets it wander.

He has never known the greatest school of witchcraft and wizardry in its time of glory, the one glimpse he had gotten of it turning him away from everything it stood for, but even he knows it will never be the same again.

The Slytherin commons are suffocating in their stillness and the mermaids never show their faces around anymore; he wouldn't have known that if not for the others to tell him, but he can confirm it, since now he no longer sleeps under the stars, the peaceful night sky replaced with a glass dome weighed down by a black lake. He would have found the prospect terrifying once, but now he doesn't have much of a choice.

He has no other place to stay.

The proud tower of the Gryffindor common house is dark and shadowed with its true age, as if the magic that has been holding it together for centuries is suddenly starting to fade. The quidditch field is colourless and bland, in disarray from lack of use.

He has never seen the house of Ravenclaw, though by the frequency with which he spots any students clad in blue and bronze—close to zero, as a matter of fact—when his mind is clear enough to take notice, he would guess they are fairing no better than any others.

Even the Hufflepuff commons are eerily tense and quiet, but understandably so; it's the only place in the castle where one cannot hear echoes of barely contained sobs. No one ever mentions it.

He takes a turn and bumps shoulders with a passing figure; they stagger awkwardly for a brief second, but he carries on without acknowledging them and sees no more than that. He doesn't question why a student would be out in the halls at this time and on this side of the school, whereas everyone else is taking classes behind closed doors.

His body finds its spot easily, like a trained mechanism, and he stares pointedly yet without strength for heat in a spot just under the horizon, at the trees of the forest surrounding the hills. His mind is far away and his legs dangle over the edge numbly, not even swaying in the breeze that he should be feeling at this height, but he knows exactly what he's staring at. He's long abandoned any feverish desire of taking the nearest broom and bolting it back there, or even walking the distance if necessary, just to make sure... because he had to be sure.

They had explained to him the nature of a forbidden curse, though he had only been listening with one ear. The professor who had taught that lesson had tried to be gentle, they clearly had no intention of upsetting him further, but their voice had broken before they could finish. It was no matter. He had heard enough.

He still could have gone, to satisfy his need to see for himself, but it would have been pointless.

The would be no body.

There would be nothing left.

He feels a hand on his shoulder—strange, he thinks vaguely—and it's heavy with purpose, pressing into his muscles just a little bit, though not enough to come off as harsh; just enough so that he would feel it regardless of what state of numbness he happened to be in. It's the hand of someone who knows him well.

He doesn't know how long he's been staring, but he notes with a dull tone if disinterest that the sun is starting to set.

He doesn't know how long it takes him to slowly, so very slowly, raise his head and turn to the body attached to the hand, or even how long it takes him to pair the face above him with a name; too long, he thinks absentmindedly, because he can't think of one, but he meets a pair of eyes he recognizes. They aren't yellow or snake like anymore, but he knows them still, and his brain tells him it's odd that it's him and not his brother—he has a brother?—who is staring down at him.

He sees black and yellow on his clothes and a memory brushes by, of glowing eyes looking at him with horrifying realization, but now they only hold carefully guarded understanding.

Virgil watches without really seeing as he sits next to him, and he has time to remember that he does have a brother; twin brother, in fact, and people can only tell them apart because one wears glasses and the other doesn't.

He reaches out with a gloved hand—he doesn't like touching people very much, his mind supplies helpfully—and brushes a thumb over his right cheek with a gentleness that is surprising for some reason. He does the same thing to the other side of his face and then reaches an arm over his shoulders with cautious movements, like he's handling something made of glass, pulling him into a very light side hug.

Virgil doesn't realize he's crying until his head meets soft fabric, still doesn't know how long he's been crying for, and his face shows nothing and he's still empty inside, but the weight of an arm across his back is grounding and he's thankful for it.

"I miss him."

He doesn't know it's his voice that said it, because it's so empty and terribly hoarse from lack of use, until the fingers around his shoulder noticeably tighten.

He doesn't need him to say it back to know he misses him too.

They all do.

They all know why he did what he did, that without his sacrifice none would be where they are now, that if he were still alive and a similar situation arose he would do the same thing again, without hesitation.

Logan would have looked him in the eye with a tenderness he knew was reserved only for him and told him, with that passion he used whenever something he strongly believed in was concerned, that the world was worth saving.

_No..._

The sun disappears beneath the line of the horizon and the shadowy outline of the trees fades into the darkness.

_...it's not._

He gazes over a world without Logan in it, a world that has everything to offer, and had there been any strength left in him he would have laughed, because his everything is already gone.

It comes out in a sob, and the fingers on his shoulder hold tighter.

**_It's not worth it._ **


	3. Deleted Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then the sorting hat had spoken something no one had never heard before:
> 
> "I don't know."

"What did you think of me? When you first saw me...?"

He forfeited the view of the tall towers standing stark against the violet whisps of dusk just above the setting sun to turn his head to the left, thinking he would be engaged in conversation, but those wonderful eyes hadn't wavered in their gaze, still fixed on a spot near the horizon. 

Upon hearing no immediate response, he saw him shift slightly, and his eyes turned downcast, blinking once.

"Where did you think I would end up?"

He too glanced away then, memories of his arrival at the greatest school of witchcraft and wizardry on that first day resurfacing involuntarily. 

He had marvelled at the architecture, naturally, and had closely studied their surroundings during the length of the train ride—at least, as best as he could have over the very distracting and loud voice of one of the other two people in his compartment, who hadn't wasted a moment in throwing himself into all about how excited he was to be there and how he wished he could buy all the delicious candy.

He smiled briefly at the memory; his twin brother had thankfully been much more tolerable—as in silent—except for the occasional sarcastic remark, though he had given him a few unnerving looks every now and again. 

He'd known the first one would be a Hufflepuff the second he'd refused to acknowledge his refusal of a gift and pulled out a whole row of friendship bracelets tied together with a string, claiming everybody needed a friend in their life, and at that his brother had smirked in that unnerving way of his and he had thought his mannerisms were clearly indicative that he would be in Slytherin; though now he had learned to distinguish between a look of warning and a look of fondness.

All three of them had ended up sticking together, more at the insistence of a certain friendship enthusiast, and they'd met a particularly charming fellow on their way to the carriages. He was loud, boisterous and clearly thought himself above everyone else, but within that pride lay an undoubtedly adventurous spirit. He'd dubbed him a Gryffindor.

It had been an entertaining thought—that they would all spread across the four houses—but it hadn't lasted long and there was no use dwelling on it now.

He hadn't met him as much as seen him; a small, shy child with a cloak far too large for him engulfing his shoulders, hurrying up to the front when his name was called with the haste and stiffness of someone who carried themselves like they would rather be anywhere else. There were some whispers and not so very subtle snickers regarding his cloak, as that was simply the way children were, and a little noise had started to pick up—mostly from the Gryffindor table.

And then the sorting hat had started to mumble, and the longer it spent mumbling the quieter the room got, and after every single pair of eyes had remained locked upon the poor boy for a significant period of time, there was a pause when the air seemed to freeze, and then the sorting hat had spoken something no one had never heard before.

"I don't know."

He saw him tense beside him and open his mouth to speak, a painful flash of remembrance darting across his eyes, but he cut him off before he even uttered the words he knew he was about to say.

"I don't know," he repeated, more softly this time, "and I don't care."

It had the anticipated effect, dark brown meeting azure blue in a guarded but hopeful gaze, and he knew he had his attention.

It wasn't the first time he had thought of the subject, in all honesty, and it would certainly not be the last. He had done his research on the workings of his school, more importantly the magic hat itself, and seeing as the founders were all long dead, he had encountered no hope of ever seeing the logic or even intuition behind its reasoning. 

He had even questioned a few teachers directly and they had all given the same answer in some manner of words; the sorting hat was always right.

"You don't..." he started but trailed off, contemplating his words with great care. Logan reached across the branch to lay a warm hand over his, noting that they were a tad cold.

"But I don't fit." came a quiet remark, like it was some obvious truth he needed to remind himself of.

That wouldn't do.

"Correction—" his smooth and even voice chased away the heaviness that had seemed to settle around them. "—none of the houses fit you."

He could have gone on a tagent about self worth and personal qualities, but for once he chose not to indulge.

"You are too complex of an individual for a single set of traits to define you." he pushed away thoughts of blue and bronze that did not belong to him. "To put it simply, you provided more than they asked for and they were at a loss for what to do with it."

His gaze flickered down to the beginnings of a smile and without realizing he mirrored it. It was small, but there.

All was quiet for a while, and he returned to watching the descent of the sun.

"It must be nice, though... to know where you belong."

He scooted closer without hesitation and caught his attention just in time, lifting their hands to eye level so that he would see what he was doing and lacing their fingers together. Their palms fit perfectly over each other, like two pieces of the same puzzle. 

"Do you not?"

The only answer he needed was the one he received, in a smile so beautiful it could have rivaled the setting sun; and the sun, forgotten as it ducked for cover under the trees, had never stood a chance.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Kudos, comments and/or bookmarks are much appreciated!


End file.
